day was indelibly burned into Rachel’s
memory, too, and she felt her blood grow cold as she recalled the
heart-stopping fear that had taken hold of her when she realized the Indians
were following her. Her flight had been in vain and all her struggles futile.
Vividly, she remembered how frightened and humiliated she had been when they
threw her to the ground and lifted her skirts, their deep-set black eyes
leering at her as they held her down. She remembered how relieved she had been
to see Tyree. Thank God, she had thought, help was on the way.
As always, she burned with shame at the memory of what she
had done. She could not blame Tyree for what had happened between them. He had
been ready to let her go as soon as he realized the Indians were gone, but no,
she had put her arms around his neck and practically begged him to take her.
Oh, if only he would go away! Maybe then she could forget
the whole thing. And yet, she didn’t really want to forget. She had thrilled to
his touch, to the feel of his arms around her. She had marveled at the way his
body felt pressed against her own, had thrilled to the crush of his lips, to
the sound of his voice whispering in her ear, telling her she was beautiful,
desirable.
She was glad when Amy came in, clamoring for milk and
cookies.
Chapter Five
Early Monday morning, Tyree saddled his horse and rode into
town. He had been cooped up at the Lazy H for too long, he mused, and he felt
the need for a drink and a few hours of solitude at the local watering hole.
Riding down the main street, he stopped at the first saloon
he came to. Bowsher’s, the sign said, and Tyree grinned. Flat-Nose Beverly
Bowsher was a name known on both sides of the Missouri. Flat-Nose had been a
notorious madam in a swanky Denver saloon until she fell in love with a
half-breed Apache scout. The Indian had no understanding of a woman who sold
herself to men and sliced off the end of her nose. Beverly had fled Denver and
taken up residence in the quiet town of Yellow Creek. She was old now and kept
to her rooms above the saloon. But her name remained a legend.
Dismounting, Tyree looped the chestnut’s reins over the
hitch-rack, slipped the cinch, and gave the animal a pat on the neck before
stepping inside the saloon. Ordering a bottle of rye whiskey from the bar dog,
he carried the bottle to a rear table. Sitting there, with his back against the
wall, he slowly and methodically worked his way to the bottom of the bottle,
feeling his muscles relax as the pale amber liquid warmed his belly.
The saloon grew crowded as noontime approached. Shopkeepers
drifted in for a quick drink after lunch. Unemployed cowhands ambled in, hoping
to get a lead on a job at one of the local ranches.
Tyree studied each man that entered the saloon, sizing them
up with a practiced eye. Toward evening, a pair of hardcases swaggered in, and
Tyree felt himself grow tense as he recognized two of Walsh’s hired guns. The
Slash W riders spotted Tyree at the same time. Frowning, they stood with their
heads together for a few moments before they hurried out of the saloon.
It was late when Tyree returned to the Lazy H. Only one
light burned in the house and Tyree went inside expecting to find Rachel’s old
man asleep over his account books. Instead, he found Rachel curled up in a
chair, reading a volume of Shakespeare.
Damned if she didn’t look like some kind of golden temptress
sitting there, Tyree mused, what with her tawny hair spilling over her
shoulders and the lamplight softly caressing the curve of her cheek.
Rachel looked up, startled by his sudden appearance. “Mr.
Tyree. We thought you had left.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but I just took the day
off.”
Rachel wrinkled her nose with distaste as she caught a whiff
of his breath. “And spent it at the local saloon,” she muttered with obvious
disapproval.
“Yeah. You got any coffee?”
“There’s some left from dinner,” she said
memory, too, and she felt her blood grow cold as she recalled the
heart-stopping fear that had taken hold of her when she realized the Indians
were following her. Her flight had been in vain and all her struggles futile.
Vividly, she remembered how frightened and humiliated she had been when they
threw her to the ground and lifted her skirts, their deep-set black eyes
leering at her as they held her down. She remembered how relieved she had been
to see Tyree. Thank God, she had thought, help was on the way.
As always, she burned with shame at the memory of what she
had done. She could not blame Tyree for what had happened between them. He had
been ready to let her go as soon as he realized the Indians were gone, but no,
she had put her arms around his neck and practically begged him to take her.
Oh, if only he would go away! Maybe then she could forget
the whole thing. And yet, she didn’t really want to forget. She had thrilled to
his touch, to the feel of his arms around her. She had marveled at the way his
body felt pressed against her own, had thrilled to the crush of his lips, to
the sound of his voice whispering in her ear, telling her she was beautiful,
desirable.
She was glad when Amy came in, clamoring for milk and
cookies.
Chapter Five
Early Monday morning, Tyree saddled his horse and rode into
town. He had been cooped up at the Lazy H for too long, he mused, and he felt
the need for a drink and a few hours of solitude at the local watering hole.
Riding down the main street, he stopped at the first saloon
he came to. Bowsher’s, the sign said, and Tyree grinned. Flat-Nose Beverly
Bowsher was a name known on both sides of the Missouri. Flat-Nose had been a
notorious madam in a swanky Denver saloon until she fell in love with a
half-breed Apache scout. The Indian had no understanding of a woman who sold
herself to men and sliced off the end of her nose. Beverly had fled Denver and
taken up residence in the quiet town of Yellow Creek. She was old now and kept
to her rooms above the saloon. But her name remained a legend.
Dismounting, Tyree looped the chestnut’s reins over the
hitch-rack, slipped the cinch, and gave the animal a pat on the neck before
stepping inside the saloon. Ordering a bottle of rye whiskey from the bar dog,
he carried the bottle to a rear table. Sitting there, with his back against the
wall, he slowly and methodically worked his way to the bottom of the bottle,
feeling his muscles relax as the pale amber liquid warmed his belly.
The saloon grew crowded as noontime approached. Shopkeepers
drifted in for a quick drink after lunch. Unemployed cowhands ambled in, hoping
to get a lead on a job at one of the local ranches.
Tyree studied each man that entered the saloon, sizing them
up with a practiced eye. Toward evening, a pair of hardcases swaggered in, and
Tyree felt himself grow tense as he recognized two of Walsh’s hired guns. The
Slash W riders spotted Tyree at the same time. Frowning, they stood with their
heads together for a few moments before they hurried out of the saloon.
It was late when Tyree returned to the Lazy H. Only one
light burned in the house and Tyree went inside expecting to find Rachel’s old
man asleep over his account books. Instead, he found Rachel curled up in a
chair, reading a volume of Shakespeare.
Damned if she didn’t look like some kind of golden temptress
sitting there, Tyree mused, what with her tawny hair spilling over her
shoulders and the lamplight softly caressing the curve of her cheek.
Rachel looked up, startled by his sudden appearance. “Mr.
Tyree. We thought you had left.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but I just took the day
off.”
Rachel wrinkled her nose with distaste as she caught a whiff
of his breath. “And spent it at the local saloon,” she muttered with obvious
disapproval.
“Yeah. You got any coffee?”
“There’s some left from dinner,” she said
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